Category Archives: Writing

Poetry And Prose, Story, Writing

Josh (A Story)

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In the acreage of his heart, Josh had not been a cultivator until the day he turned forty-seven. He considered life to be infinite and people more or less replaceable, an indictment of discernment of which most people are guilty.

On the day of his birthday, he mentally cursed as he assembled the attire necessary for his job. For six years, he volunteered for every additional duty and shift, and dutifully learned far beyond his job title. The day prior, his manager casually informed him that he would not be getting a promotion.

The divorce he suffered six months before still perched on his chest at night. A reminder of his absence at home was being repaid with a bitter loneliness. Although he had done something right, he also committed the sin of deflecting his priorities.

“Choose wisely. Every decision has a consequence,” he told himself.

After downing his quick cup of coffee, Josh went to his car and plopped inside. He tried to summon the enthusiasm for a day at a job that had become his executioner.

As he neared the antiquated convenience store, he was startled by Mr. Shazam running from the opposite side of the street. Mr. Shazam was a gloriously intelligent homeless man of indeterminate age. Josh, on multiple occasions, bought Mr. Shazam food or cigarettes.

Josh had never seen him run. As Mr. Shazam reached the north wall of the convenience store, he leaned against it with his right arm, bending over and breathing hard.

Josh pulled in the parking lot and stopped. The shrill siren of a police car echoed behind him. As he turned to look, a black and white sped into the parking lot and stopped in front of him.

The policeman who exited the vehicle looked older, much too old to be a patrolman. He flipped open the holster on his right side and pulled out his service pistol.

“Don’t move!” Instead of keeping his pistol pointed down, the policeman aimed it at Mr. Shazam, who still gasped for breath.

Josh didn’t consider himself to be rash. A primal instinct of protection flared in him. Before he even realized he was doing it, he quickly exited his car and stepped forward, putting himself almost directly in the line of fire.

“Hey! What’s going on?”

The policeman didn’t bother looking at Josh. “Step back and get back into your car!”

Josh did involuntarily take one step back but moved no further. “This must be some kind of mistake. Mr. Shazam isn’t a criminal. He’s not armed.” Josh looked at the police officer, his focus on the gun that trembled in the officer’s hand.

“Someone called in a break-in down the street. When I arrived on scene, he was getting out of a car parked on the street and holding a weapon, which he held up toward me.”

Everything the policeman got wrong flashed through Josh’s mind. While he didn’t know what Mr. Shazam held in his hand, he knew that the owner of the non-working vehicle let him sleep in it anytime he wanted to. Mr. Shazam had run toward one of the few places he felt safe.

“You’re not understanding…” The rest of whatever Josh was going to say dried up on his lips as the officer briefly pointed his pistol at Josh.

“Back in the car! Now!”

Mr. Shazam stood up and turned toward the officer. He waved like he did with everyone. “Sorry about that.”

Mr. Shazam took a step toward the officer.

“Stop!”

On the front side of the store, the convenience store clerk froze as she looked around the side of the building. In my brief encounters with her, Susan was polite, no matter how unruly or argumentative the customers became with her.

For reasons Josh couldn’t understand, Susan took two steps forward.

The policeman swung his pistol in her direction. I could see anger flare in the officer’s face as he realized two people were interfering.

Mr. Shazam turned his head to look at Susan and smiled. He took another step as he refocused on the police officer.

Josh wasn’t thinking as he stepped toward Mr. Shazam. His intention was to get close enough to make eye contact with him. This tactic had worked well many times.

Josh watched in detached disbelief as the pavement rushed at his face. He felt his nose crack as he blacked out.

Josh felt like he was shaken awake almost immediately.

“What’s your name? Can you hear me?”

Josh couldn’t focus on the person’s face above his.

“Open it wide,” another voice said.

Josh rapidly blinked several times and turned his head to the left. He could barely make out the silhouette of someone kneeling on Mr. Shazam’s back. He realized it was the police officer, who had his head bent to the right, rapidly barking words into his shoulder as he held his left hand there.

“It’s my birthday,” Josh said.

The person kneeling over him put their hands on both sides of his face. His fingers were wet. “This is some kind of birthday. Try not to move your head. You’ve been shot.”

“Was Mr. Shazam shot?”

“Right arm,” the person above him said. “No. He’s okay.”

The police officer’s face appeared above John.

“Cuff him for interference.”

There was a wild squabble of voices above Josh.

“Eff off. We don’t know whether the bullet passed through his head. Move away and let us treat him.”

Josh’s eyes locked and focused. For some reason, the EMTs face looked indistinct.

“I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this.” Josh spoke clearly, as if he had stumbled and fallen.

“It’s my job. Are you feeling any pain?”

Josh shook his head.

“The bullet did not go through,” Josh said.

“You were shot in the head. You have a wound above your right ear.”

The EMT later told the shooting investigation team that Josh looked up at him and smiled.

“There’s an exit wound on the top of my head,” Josh said.

“How you know that?”

“I can see it. Push your finger right on top under my hair.”

Josh felt the EMTs wet fingers slide up and push. At the time, he didn’t think much about Josh saying he could see it. People in trauma said all sorts of things.

“I’ll be damned,” the EMT said. “You’re right.”

“It’s my birthday,” Josh repeated. “And now I don’t have to go to work.”

…

A year later to the day, Josh looked across the table at his ex-wife. Soon to be wife again. Mr. Shazam sat to his right, happily eating from what amounted to a quarter of the entire birthday cake in the middle of the table.

Mr. Shazam stopped eating and spoke, even though blue frosting lined his mouth like badly applied lipstick.

“Tell it again, Josh!”

Josh, laughed and shrugged. “It was the best thing that could have happened to me. I could see the other five police cars arrive rapidly one by one. The second ambulance. Susan going back inside the convenience store and crying. And I could see myself on the dirty pavement with blood everywhere around my head. It was peaceful. I felt happy when I saw the police officer pull Mr. Shazam up to his feet. I saw it all from a distance. This sounds crazy, I know. Officer Corbin lost his job, but at least we kept him from being prosecuted. And then of course you, Cindy, came and picked me up from the hospital the next morning. And I don’t even hate my job anymore. It pays the bills and that’s more than enough. Oh, and Mr. Shazam got a great place to live after all of that.”

“Shall we toast?” Cindy raised her glass of wine.

Josh raised his glass to meet hers. Mr. Shazam, instead of toasting with them, downed the rest of his in a big gulp. Cindy laughed with Josh as they clinked glasses.

Sometimes, you need to get shot in the head to be awakened.

Sometimes, all it takes is to stop whatever it is you’re doing and do something different. The universe provides its reminders both gently and forcibly.
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Personal, Poetry And Prose, Writing

From Theo To Marjay

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Ma chère Marjay:

Words are not the aperitif; they are entrée. Words rendered poetic, chosen and distilled, are the fuel that lifts the corners of your mouth and swells your heart. It’s unquestionable that the portrait in question captured you in the midst of both interaction and wit, because the best teachers are listeners.

The beguiling simplicity of your portrait also demonstrates the complexity of rendering three dimensions as two, much in the way that labels such as “teacher” or “mother” confine you to roles of commerce and utility. Description is reduction, unintentionally stripping individuality.

Your depiction rendered easily, morphing complexity into simplicity while amplifying your presence. Theo would indeed be studying your portrait – and more than delighted to sit near the fountain and devour a morning talking with you. He would, of course, take immediate note of your grace, but his focus would drift away to words, ideas, and experiences. Everyone has a biography, but few are armed to express it in a way that evokes both magic and data. Beauty often fades, but curiosity, intellect, and compassion amplify with age. The jovial and observant among us find home in things invisible.

Your brilliant eyes focus on the world, seeing all its warts without losing sight of its beauty. You are one of the few who observe with an oblique periphery and still choose a smile over a grimace.

As of late, perhaps, just perhaps, you jettisoned a bit of cherubic in exchange for lean. The smile invariably remains, reshaped by the architecture of adjustment, yet immalleable.

Theo would no doubt remind you that you are both battery and source, even though your humility would propel you to delightfully laugh.

Where shall a portrait such as yours hang? It holds hall and quarter in the hearts and minds of your husband, children, and an immeasurable repertoire of students, each of whom now carries a piece of you in their memories. Were your portrait in a sunlit hallway, Theo would pause in the lengthening shadows, studying nuance and meaning. He would find it in the lines that demarcate your portrait.

Context: Marjay recently gifted me a book, one that unlocked something in me and gave me permission again to write like the way I like to. She gave me permission to pay her homage. I made a picture, one that took me over 20 layers. I needed a portrait at least minimally comparable to what the protagonist Theo might have gazed upon during his mission. The words are tinged with admiration. But they are also a reminder to her because good people need at least infrequent reminders that people do see them.

X

Book, Lemon Moment, Opinion, Personal, Writing

Theo Of Thought

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After considerable internal revelation, it occurred to me incrementally and then as a hammer upon anvil. Greater even than the aroma of bitter coffee on a cold morning, the glimpse of unadorned physical beauty, and even the prickly skin of a glimmer produced by unfathomable music.

It is murmuration of thought.

Much like the massive flocks of birds that exhibit a murmuration, I feel most alive and myself when the zone of previously disconnected ideas becomes a force majeure of a new idea, thought, or joke derived from the deceptive simplicity of words for action.

Too much time raced past me before I realized I did not need to summon or conjure this feeling by force. It is the ‘me’ that needs no provocation.

The click of words and ideas slithering into their proper places makes me as happy as damn near anything.

Reading a book that provokes the same reaction as the first time I read Pat Conroy has honed my pursuit of imperfectionism. None of us are maestros where words or grammar reside. We are mimics. When I find a truly unanchored display of expression, I find myself rereading it, feeling the unnatural groove somehow resonate.

I’ve squandered my delight.

You shouldn’t reduce or amplify because of an imagined audience. A shotgun should be your funnel for expression. Filtering is at best misguided self-censorship, almost certainly propelled by the fear that only ego can bring.

In a perverse display of contradiction, society shuns outliers. But it also capriciously rewards some and there is no discernible reason that separates the criticized from the praised. It must be familiar enough to feel personal, while simultaneously pushing the fringes to generate the feeling of newness.

Ecclesiastes may have been right stating that there is nothing new under the sun, but it is the metamorphosis and recombination of the old that can bring the delight of discovery.

Poetry And Prose, Writing

Exit

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Thomas smashed the gray urn against the mantle, shattering it in dozens of pieces. He wasn’t prepared for the massive dust cloud that eddied and spread. 

“F*** him.” He didn’t raise his voice. Anger suffered long enough becomes calm.

His mom didn’t react. She didn’t jerk, or even let her eyes widen. After thirty-two years with the object of her son’s anger, she understood. Her husband had no idea how many times she calculated the odds of getting caught if she ended him. Two weeks ago, she decided that waiting for him to do her in didn’t work for her any longer.

“Thomas, leave the mess. I’ll make us a cup of coffee with a dash of whiskey. We can curse about him as we drink it.”

Thomas followed his mom into the kitchen as she made them both a cup of coffee. Each of them were mired in their own thoughts as they picked up their cups and exited the house through the back door. 

“What are you going to do now?” Thomas sat on one of the three stumps that served as seats. He stared at the fire pit between them.

“Well, I don’t know, but it can be whatever the hell I want to for once.” 

Thomas burst out laughing. After a couple of seconds, his mom joined him.

His mom took a sip of her coffee and smiled. “I guess I can vacuum up the mess. I could leave the vacuum bag on the mantle when I’m done.”

“I’m sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it up when we go back inside.”

“You know, I just realized it’s the last time either one of us will have to clean up after him.”

Thomas laughed again. Standing up, he pulled the little bottle out of his pocket and poured the liquid into the flickering fire.

“We don’t need this anymore.”

“Never again,” his mom reverently whispered. 

Thomas dropped the empty bottle into the flames. 

Both of them watched the bottle blacken and then crack as the heat enveloped it. 

Sometimes fire is the only exit. 

X

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Personal, Poetry And Prose

The Man And The Crow

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He preferred to amble like he was a roaming laggard with purpose. He inherited the phrase from a friend long dead, with whom he shared an affinity for Bukowski. On that day, onlookers would have described him as oblivious, or perhaps careless. Unlike other cotidian days, he had no interest in the mundane goings-on around him. His singular focus rested on the slightest possibility that the crow would seek him out once again. Nestled inside a blue tissue in his pocket was a gold button he’d bought at a bohemian flea market. Next to it was a prepared packet of nuts and dried bits of fruit. 

Despite the sidewalk’s occasional deficiencies, the man mostly kept his head tilted up. He’d learned that accident and providence were equally inscrutable and unforeseeable. He listened for distant echoes that might betray the approach of the crovid he sought. 

The man had all but surrendered hope when a distant call reached his ears. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, unconcerned whether another pedestrian considered him an obstacle. He waited. Not restlessly or annoyingly, like most modern people. He was immobile and unflinching, breathing deeply and evaluating the approaching sound as if his ears were governed by Doppler. 

The crow swooped low, as if it intended to touch the ground. Turning gracefully, it landed and perched atop a wooden fence in need of repair. It pecked at the gray wood beneath it, raised its head, and looked at the man. 

At that moment, a bicyclist approached. “To your left,” he shouted, as if the danger of hitting someone was greater than the risk of seeing the ridiculously tight shorts he wore. 

“You’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk.” The bicyclist turned his head as he sped past. 

“I am not merely standing. I am experiencing.” The man didn’t turn his head as he addressed the cyclist. 

Like most denizens of the area, the cyclist had no idea what the man meant. His vocabulary was stuffed and stocked with practical words, absent metaphors. He shook his head and pedaled faster.  

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out both tissue and packet. Unfolding the tissue, he retrieved the button from its confines and walked across the grass to the fence. He knew better than to seek conversation with the crow directly. Reaching up, he carefully placed the gold button on the rectangular top of one of the posts that allegedly held up the fence. After unrolling it, he upended the packet and poured the nuts and fruit onto the wood next to the button. 

Walking backward without looking behind him, the man stopped when his feet found the sidewalk again. He nodded toward the bird. 

The bird hunched almost imperceptibly, flew effortlessly across, and landed on the boards nearest the post.

“Kraa! Kraa!”

The man smiled as the crow raspily acknowledged the gifts. Its gravelly call was the equivalent of italics and enthusiasm. Pecking studiously, the bird efficiently consumed several nuts and bits of fruit. It turned and stretched its wings like a phoenix. 

“Kraa!” 

The bird pirouetted and used its beak to clasp the button. Hunching again, it flew down toward the ground in the man’s direction, then shot upward above him. 

The man smiled, recognizing that the bird had chosen to dive as an acknowledgment. The gold button prohibited its call. 

Within seconds, the crow disappeared over the crest of the trees, almost as if the sunlight caressing it had rendered it invisible. 

For all who patiently wait for sublime, subdued moments, there is recompense. Perhaps not in the flashy way we are ingrained to seek. The man had learned to notice things, even when unwarranted. 

Before the man turned to traipse away, two argumentative starlings landed like teenagers trying a skateboard trick they had seen but never attempted. In seconds, they devoured the remaining bits. Because the sun graced the skies, the man observed the starlings’ spring iridescence. He wondered how much ultraviolet the birds could actually see. 

They flew off as if governed by misprogrammed GPS. Though they lacked the grace of his most recent friend, the crow, their inelegance had its own beauty. 

Sunlight and success propelled the man back home, as if his feet were supported by a layer of air. His mental to-do list grew by one when he realized he might need more buttons, along with fresh coffee. It was anyone’s guess which would bring more happiness.

Animals, Death, Poetry And Prose

Mr. Doofus

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Mr. Doofus

In the years before everything changed, Greg knew that someday he would send his last message, speak his last words, and enjoy a sunset. One day, someone would speak his name for the last time. Finality brings focus. When a cup of coffee potentially becomes your last, the sips are dark and delicious, and even a drop wasted brings regret.

It was all theoretical until the doctor uncomfortably leaned forward and adjusted his tie. Even after years of practice, he hadn’t acquired the ability to tell someone that they would soon be defined by a dash between dates. “It’s everywhere. The exploratory surgery confirmed it.”

Greg asked the only question he could think of.

“I’d say two months. I’m so sorry,” the doctor answered.

Greg’s days were truly numbered.

After leaving the doctor’s office, he drove home. Instead of going inside, he walked across the railroad tracks. He meandered through the abandoned industrial district that once fueled the small town. He’d seen it all dozens of times. This time, however, he paid attention to every detail.

Greg stopped near an abandoned building that once held dozens of workers. The sign that once displayed the name of a thriving company was now rusted and faded. It was a relic now, succumbing to time. When Greg was young, the place was buzzing with life. Now, it slowly rusted and constantly sought ways to disintegrate.

“I thought I had more time. I thought I could take back all the ways I insisted I was right. In faith, in action, and words.” He didn’t know why he said it aloud.

The trees above him didn’t acknowledge him like he expected. They rebuffed his excessive self-reflection. For once, he stood under them and let the breeze wash over him.

The abandoned cat chose that moment to make his appearance and introduction. He poked through between bent pieces of galvanized metal, probably after hearing Greg’s voice.

Greg didn’t have time to react as the scruffy grey cat ran over to him, meowed, and then forcefully rubbed against the back of his leg. Bending down, he rubbed the cat’s head as it arched its back to meet his fingers. The cat’s fur was messy and tangled in a few places.

As Greg ran his fingers along the cat’s back, he felt a scar that traversed at least four inches of the cat’s back. Pushing the fur aside, he could see that the jagged scar was long-healed, even though the cat didn’t appear to be very old.

The cat meandered behind him as Greg walked home. Greg walked slowly, appreciating the leaves, the fading sun, and his collection of memories. He stopped at the railroad tracks, staring in each direction as the tracks stretched away from him.

“I’ve got a scar like that too,” Greg told the cat as it peered up at him and rubbed his leg. Greg’s scar was only a few months old. He caught himself touching it lightly through his shirt several times a day. The surgery that could have lasted three hours took only fifteen minutes before the surgeon closed him back up.

“Go home, doofus,” Greg said as he turned to rub the cat’s head one last time.

Greg avoided looking back at the cat as he neared his house. Taking his keys from his pocket, he turned. The cat sat directly behind him, looking up.

Greg opened the door and held it open. The cat meowed and walked inside as Greg shook his head.

“Just for a minute, okay? I can’t give you a permanent home.”

He watched as the cat ran to the couch, jumped up to the edge, and watched him.

When Greg reached for the cat to pet it, it hunkered down slightly and then jumped. Greg caught him as the cat arched up and nuzzled under his chin. Greg laughed as the cat’s whiskers rubbed against his face.

“Let’s see what I can find to give you to eat, Mr. Doofus.” Greg finally bent down to let the cat sit on the floor and look up at him.

Within a couple of minutes, Greg placed a small plate of tuna on the floor. “Your dinner is served,” Greg said.

Mr. Doofus meowed a loud thank-you and began eating the tuna noisily.

Greg placed a bowl of water next to the kitchen table. Mr. Doofus slowly walked over to the bowl and began drinking.

After heating up a microwave meal, Greg picked up his small tray and turned to the living room.

Mr. Doofus jumped up in the middle of the couch, turned, and faced the TV.

Greg sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. News wouldn’t hold his interest. It mattered only when you thought you might be around to see how everything worked out.

Mr. Doofus climbed onto Greg’s lap and curled up, purring loudly. Greg ate a few bites of his meal before pushing it across the coffee table. Instead of paying attention to the TV, Greg rubbed his hands along Mr. Doofus until he was purring like a jet engine.

For the first night in weeks, Greg slept soundly, despite sprawling out on the uncomfortable couch. He didn’t remember falling asleep, nor that Mr. Doofus had curled up next to him.

The next morning, Greg sat up, certain that he would be stiff and sore from sleeping on the couch. Instead, he felt like his old self.

Mr. Doofus rubbed his head along Greg’s leg until he jumped down and walked over to the door to paw at it.

“Gotta go to the bathroom?”

Greg opened the door as the cat meandered out. It didn’t even occur to Greg that his new friend might not return. He left the door open.

By the time Greg had finished his coffee, brushed his teeth, and decided he needed to go to the store to get Mr. Doofus some supplies, Mr. Doofus popped back inside, meowing loudly to announce his presence.

The cat ran across to jump up on the couch as Greg’s fingers rubbed along his fur.

“Keep an eye on things for me. I’ll be back in thirty, okay?”

Mr. Doofus jumped down and walked over to the window. He jumped up and sat on the sill, licking his paw before running it smoothly across the top of his head.

Greg made it back home in forty-five minutes. He set up the litter box and put out the special decorated bowls for his new friend. Opening the bag of special cat food, he poured it into the bowl.

“I picked this out because the cat on the bag looks like you,” Greg told Mr. Doofus, who was already eating from the new bowl.

Greg turned on the TV and pulled out his phone. Mr. Doofus jumped up onto his lap and spread across him as Greg petted him.

“I’ll be back Monday,” Greg said, after his manager answered.

“That’s great news! So you’re doing okay? We were worried.” Greg’s manager sounded relieved.

“Yes, everything’s okay now.”

Mr. Doofus peered up at Greg as he finished the call.

“What? I’m fine. I’m just not going to be around as long as I thought. None of us is.”

Mr. Doofus seemed unconvinced, but settled back down when Greg ran his hand all the way down his back to the end of his tail.

When Greg got up to make another coffee and then went outside, the cat followed him and sat next to his left leg, rubbing and purring.

Over the next eleven months, Greg fell into a routine, including this new friend in everything he did. He wasted a lot of money buying the cat toys until one day he accidentally dropped an empty toilet paper roll on the bathroom floor. Mr. Doofus growled and attacked it. He spent the next ten minutes fighting it to the death. Soon after, Greg came home from work with multiple empty rolls that people had saved for him. He didn’t mind cleaning up the shredded cardboard because it was the only thing that reminded Mr. Doofus that he had once been wild.

…

The day finally came when he knew he had to put aside the veneer of privacy and talk to his neighbor Jane. She lived across the street and two houses down. They had greeted each other more than once, but never had a real conversation. Greg knew that she was a single mom and had struggled financially for a long time. Just looking at her car, it was obvious that crossed fingers probably kept it intact.

Jane took a bit to answer the door. She left the storm door closed as she smiled. Greg didn’t blame her for being cautious.

“Jane, I’m sorry to bother you, but if you have a few minutes, I would like to talk to you.”

Jane pushed the store door open and almost stepped out. She looked at Greg strangely and then pushed it out and held it open.

“Come on in. I’m making supper, if you don’t mind me doing that while we talk.”

As Greg stepped inside, the aroma of whatever she was making assaulted him. Hunger had mostly become a thing of the past, but the smell made his stomach growl.

Jane walked into the kitchen as Greg followed her. He stopped by the kitchen table as Jane stirred marinara on the stove top.

When Greg hesitated, Jane smiled. “Don’t be nervous. Unless you’re asking me for money.”

“I don’t know how to tell you all this. I apologize in advance for hitting you with it.”

Jane’s face changed as she listened. The smile became flat.

“No, it’s not anything bad or about you,” Greg said. “You know I don’t have any family left, right?”

Jane nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Sixty years taught me it’s the way life is. And the last year definitely reminded me. Anyway, I’m not going to be around much longer.”

Jane grimaced. Greg could see her recoil instinctively.

“I’ve lived longer than the doctor said I would. But now it’s time to face facts. I don’t know you at all, really, but if you agree, I’d like to make you an offer.”

“Oh?” It was easy to see that Jane was confused and probably a little worried because she had no context.

“Because I have no family, I want to give you my house, my car, and everything else left over.”

Jane’s face went through a series of contortions as she tried to catch up to what Greg had said.

“Give me your house? But you don’t know me!”

“I know. But I know you’re renting this house. And I know it’s a struggle as a mom with a 10-year-old boy.”

“So you want to just give me your house? What’s the catch? I’m sorry for being cynical. There has to be one.”

Greg shook his head. “There is. I want you to let my cat, Mr. Doofus, live in the house with you once I’m gone. That’s it. I think I’m only still alive because he adopted me a while back, at the exact moment I needed him.”

Jane’s eyes widened as she studied Greg’s face. In the thirty-eight years she had lived, she had learned to trust her instincts. Her gut told her Greg was telling the truth.

Her eyes welled up with tears as she continued to stare at Greg.

“I will need some more details from you, but I’m going to take care of everything so that I can make sure you don’t have to do anything or pay any legal bills.”

Jane turned awkwardly, turned off the stove burner, and moved the pan. She moved to the table, pulled the chair away from it, and sat down. As Greg watched, she put her face between her hands and sobbed.

Because he didn’t know her well, he waited silently. It took Jane a bit before she raised her head and wiped her eyes with her hands.

“Are you sure? There’s no one else?”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t be sad for me. Think of it as karma from the universe. I didn’t do anything to deserve the tumor that grew inside of me for a year before I knew it was there. But you deserve a chance, and I can give it to you. A place for your son to finish growing up and a place that’s yours. I’m going to get a new car and put the title in both of our names. It will be yours too, along with any money I have left over.”

“I’m so sorry, Greg. Jesus, I don’t know what to say. Last week I almost couldn’t make rent, and now you’re telling me you’re just giving me your house.”

Greg smiled. He instinctively knew that she was coming around to the idea.

“And yes, I will adopt Mr. Doofus and keep him for as long as he lives.” Jane wiped her eyes again. “I would have a pet, but I’d have to pay another deposit.”

Greg pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and flattened it. He put it on the table near Jane.

“Fill in these details tonight, if you don’t mind. You can put it on my door if you’d like. I have the day off tomorrow, and I’m going to meet my lawyer.”

Jane pushed back from the table, stood up, and took three steps before throwing her hands around Greg and hugging him.

“I am so sorry, Greg. Please don’t fault me for maybe looking happy. I’m sad for you.”

Greg tentatively put his arms around Jane and squeezed her.

When she stepped back, he smiled.

“I promise you I’m okay. I’ll let you finish dinner. I know your son’s coming home soon. Enjoy your evening, okay?”

Jane nodded, but didn’t reply. Greg knew that she was about to burst into tears. Had he told her she would probably end up with $200,000, she might have completely lost control.

…

When Greg went inside his house, Mr. Doofus meowed loudly until he sat on the floor and playfully wrestled with him. He ignored the pain running across his sides.

“You’re going to get a new friend to take care of you,” Gred said. Mr. Doofus stopped playfully biting at Greg’s fingers as he looked up. “Thank you for finding me, you little doofus.”

Mr. Doofus grabbed Greg’s right hand with his paws and resumed nipping at him with his teeth. Greg laughed and forgot about everything for a while.

…

A few weeks later, Maple Street became lined with colorful red, yellow, and orange leaves. The blue house with the blue door filled the air with competing colors. Inside, Jane sat on the couch. Her son Jefferson playfully tossed a cardboard roll to Mr. Doofus as he sat on the windowsill. Catching it in his paws, he attacked it. Little pieces of cardboard floated to the floor below. Jane shook her head, knowing that she would dutifully sweep it up later, once Mr. Doofus had vanquished the cardboard invader.

She thought of Greg almost every time she looked at Mr. Doofus. He wasn’t a cat at all. He was a timely angel, furry and loving. Had it not been for him, Greg wouldn’t have had enough time to come to terms with his death or his ability to help someone like her.

“Mom, is this really our house forever?” Her son Jefferson had asked her the same question a hundred times.

“No, it’s our home,” Jane said, smiling. “With our very own guardian angel.”

Mr. Doofus turned in a circle as he sat on the windowsill. He stared out the window as the leaves drifted to the ground.

…

Art, Behavior, Humor, Personal, Poetry And Prose

Pretend

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“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” 

Vonnegut’s warning about adapting and conforming to roles and behaviors is as true today as it was 65 years ago. 

It runs in the back of my mind all the time as I watch people sacrifice agency and personality. 

If you dehumanize people, convinced you’re doing it for profit, eventually you are not separate from the organization that financially motivates you to do it.

If you spout ideology, whether for entertainment purposes or views, at some point you become your words.

The positive aspect of this is that of course you can become kinder by using habit to constantly reinforce the behavior you want from yourself. 

The main focus that runs through my mind is that people are maintaining appearances and adopting personalities that serve them to make a living. Paradoxically, however, they often find themselves becoming what initially was a facade.

One of my favorite wood panels that I’ve made. I made it as a reminder of youth. And to never be the one on the sideline watching other people find a way to get the crayons and stick them out of their nostrils. I’ve not done well with this lately. 

Behavior, NSFW, Opinion, Personal, Psychology, Relationships, Romance, Social Rules, Writing

Erotica

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This isn’t the kind of post I started out to write. I don’t mind expressing myself on the fly, nor do I worry about being vague when I shouldn’t be, or about not getting it quite right. There are so many reasons NOT to write off-the-cuff. But I usually don’t let that stop me. If you want to get into hot water or draw unwelcome scrutiny, just try openly talking about sexuality.

When we’re young, we don’t fully understand it. It takes experience, tempered with real-world knowledge of the rituals and social norms of sexual expression and interaction. By the time we’re older, our bodies begin to revolt, and our expectations can get skewed by people, circumstances, or frustration. It’s not supposed to be that way.

Most of us are sexual beings. It’s one of those facts that’s obvious. Yet, we spend an inordinate amount of time keeping it hidden in plain sight. Most of the time, anyway. We wonder about our attractiveness, even when we’re in a committed, monogamous relationship. Hair, makeup, clothes, body, just about everything gets intertwined in our sexual identity.

For much of our lives, seeking pleasure is a constant companion. When it’s good, it’s one of the best possible things we can experience. It’s free. It’s liberating. It creates a connection. At least it is supposed to. When love is present, it can be freely expressed without so much shame, guilt, or embarrassment. 

Each of us has our own limits, boundaries, expectations, and fantasies. They aren’t something we talk about in our daily lives. If you’re lucky enough to have someone who loves you and is selfless enough to keep you satisfied, you are fortunate. If you don’t have unresolved issues, anger, or distance to keep you apart, you’re lucky.

Sex gets twisted into so many things it doesn’t need to be. 

Because this is my blog, I can say anything I want. It doesn’t shield me from potential recoil, shock, or embarrassment if I share too much or share things people don’t want to know. It’s not as if I’m explicit. 

I like writing romance stories. Especially shorter ones. I graduated with a woman who makes her living entirely from writing romance. The only difference between romance stories and erotica is that the latter breaks the barrier of explicitness. Romance novels use implication, innuendo, and roundabout means to signal all the things that erotica can express without limitation. 

Is erotica literature? Not always. But it can be if done with elegance and care. Exactly like sex can be connection and intimacy, even though it is rendered in flesh and bone and a messy adventure. People will smirk at erotica, as if some people don’t watch “Dancing With the Stars” for inspiration, or watch steamy movies without realizing it is running along the same rail as erotica.

Imagination powers a lot of sexual expression. Just a fantasy does. 

Because people don’t think about it comfortably, they can’t distinguish the subtle differences between fantasy and real-life expressions. They conflate a person’s fantasy life with their actual motivations.

As the long, dry spells of no sexual expression occur, I turn to erotica. I never thought I would be in a position to experience a life with such absences. However, as everyone knows, many relationships are more akin to roommate scenarios than to committed, loving, and intimate connections. I prefer erotica, whereas most people, it seems, turn to porn. Instead of reading what others have written, I prefer to compose it myself. To imagine people and scenarios. But all of them have the common theme of sexuality expressed as mutual satisfaction and selfless fulfillment. Don’t get me wrong. Sexual expression is amazing. But will anyone argue with the fact that it’s immeasurably better when you have someone who loves you and trusts you?

Perhaps erotica is old school in an era of so much technology. However, it’s about imagination, and very few things can trump someone who has a fantastic imagination.

It is fascinating to watch people as they live their lives and wrestle with the hidden fact of their sexuality. We don’t know what people think in the privacy of their minds. What turns them on. But we do know that sexuality ruins a lot of people and a lot of relationships. Especially when it’s absent or used in a way it’s not supposed to be. A big part of that is because sexual discussion is very taboo except in very limited circumstances. 

What makes it worse is that the very people most likely to criticize or shame others are also the ones who are most likely to be secretly consuming all manner of explicit content. 

It shouldn’t be the outliers trying to guilt us or shame us.   We’re all created and hardwired with the drive for sexual expression. Most of us, anyway. And there is an entire spectrum of differing sexual expression and need.

A good, satisfying life is about striking a balance in all things. Sex is just one of those things. On the other hand, I often think of one of my favorite lyrics, “I didn’t buy the house for the kitchen, but try living there without one.” If one thing is out of balance, it creeps into everything. Modern society constantly reminds me that people will lose all reason in their search for what they think is missing. It is also the cousin of alcoholism and addiction.

I don’t like the idea of objectifying people. That’s one main difference between erotica and other means. It’s entirely imagination. And the kind I like requires people who are excited to experience another person, trying to find the right mix of pleasure and living life with someone who wants the same. 

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